


Saving Monsters

by saltyburning



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Dean Winchester is Sam Winchester's Parent, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Jessica Moore/Sam Winchester, F/M, Fluff, Haircuts, Hurt/Comfort, John Winchester Being an Asshole, Sam Winchester Angst, Sam Winchester Has Mental Health Issues, Sam Winchester's Demonic Powers, Slight Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Stanford Era (Supernatural), but he doesn’t really know he has them yet- he just feels like there’s something wrong
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-16 22:55:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28964256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltyburning/pseuds/saltyburning
Summary: It’s Dean’s birthday, except it’s Jessica’s birthday too. Dean is hunting somewhere in the Midwest while Sam sits on the bathroom floor wondering if he’s the monster that should be hunted.Aka: Sam gets a haircut
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Jessica Moore/Sam Winchester
Comments: 6
Kudos: 44





	Saving Monsters

**Author's Note:**

> Everybody shut up! Happy birthday, Jessica Moore <3
> 
> Edit: I wrote this while _super_ tired and it was finished pretty quickly, but I liked the premise and it was super fun to work on! Hopefully the typos aren’t too bad lol

His knuckles turned white as he gripped the counter. He leaned over the sink, staring into the mirror covered in a thin layer of grime. Staring at his reflection which looked back at him with too-wide eyes. 

Strands of hair hung in his face, long enough to brush against his cheek. Some fell against the nape of his neck, sticking to his skin with sweat. He looked worse than back when he’d lived with his family, changing motel rooms more often than he slept. 

He had made the choice to leave that life. He had made the choice to have his own freedom. To have his own alarm clock and an apartment that would keep him safe. 

His dad had always been strict with hair length, and it only got worse as Sam and Dean got older. Nothing below where the head met the neck. It was considered too dangerous during hunts, too easy for a monster to grab hold and tear them to pieces. _You’re a hunter, Sam. If you’re not gonna act like one, at least look like one_. 

Dean had fallen into line it easily. Sam, on the other hand, always had some trouble with following orders. Letting his hair grow for as long as possible was an act of small rebellion. Something to remind him that he still had a chance at his own life. 

He hadn’t cut it since he had left. Last year he was celebrating Dean’s birthday and this year he was celebrating Jess’s. Everything had changed so quickly and he wasn’t sure if he was relieved or terrified. 

At first, it hadn’t even occurred to him to cut it. Dean had always done that for him. As time went on it grew longer and mussier and eventually became a nuisance. He complained about it to Luis once in class, who had looked at him strangely and asked, “Why not just cut it?” 

The question had torn a wound in his gut. Why _not_ just cut it? He was free, he was free, he was free. He didn’t need to hold onto something that had no purpose anymore. Still, something twisted in his chest like a heart-eating worm, something that whispered that he’d never be truly free from his past. 

Sam locked eyes with the person standing in the mirror. His hand shifted over, found the handle of the knife set ritualistically on the bathroom counter. When he held it, felt it’s cool touch and it’s dull weight, it felt like a prayer. 

It gleamed in the dim light. It was the only weapon he had brought with him to Stanford. A silver knife, for killing monsters. 

It was only fitting that, as he gripped a handful of hair and poised the knife to cut, it felt like he were killing himself. 

He swung the blade down in an arc, a familiar motion but nothing like _this_. A terrible _slicechopcut_ hung in the air. A clump of brown hair fell to the tiled floor. 

Sam stared at it for a moment, wondering if it counted as losing a piece of himself. 

He moved his hand over, swung again. And again. He fell into a trance, the world around him growing hazy with repetition. His arm ached from the knife’s weight. 

When he looked in the mirror again, he saw a familiar face. One of a lost soldier. 

His hair was left jagged and uneven. A trickle of blood ran down his cheek. He must’ve cut himself at some point. Strands of hair clung to it, turning sticky as the blood dried. 

The knife slipped out of his fingers and fell to the floor with a clatter. He fell with it. 

The tile was cool underneath him. It was safe and dark. He curled his knees to his forehead and let himself cry. 

Images of monsters and death flashed against his eyelids. A little girl going up in flames because she was a ghost. Amy tugging him on the arm, asking him to run away with her. His dad, face streaked with gore, standing over the corpse of a ghoul but staring at Sam as if it were him he had killed. Dean’s birthday cake, abandoned in some refrigerator because a hunt came up and that was more important than managing to stay alive another year in this horror-movie world. 

The pressure in the apartment changed and the images behind his eyes flickered away. The sound of a door swinging open, car keys being set down, Jess calling out, “Sam! I’m home!” 

He didn’t reply, kept his nose pressed against his knees. “I bought some candles for the birthday cake you made,” She continued rambling. A thump and the sound of grocery bags being set down echoed through the rooms. “Yes, I know, I peeked at the cake- I’m sorry! But it does really look good. Are you sure you haven’t baked before? I must be rubbing off on you. And you _know_ that I _love_ carrot cake!” 

There was a pause filled with silence, then quieter, she said, “Sam?” 

He opened his mouth to reply but it came out garbled. He cleared his throat and rasped, “In here.” 

Footsteps sounded as Jess crossed the room. The bathroom door swung open and golden light filled his eyes. He squinted up at her. 

Jess’s expression crossed from surprised to amused. She shook her head and giggled. “Never cut your own hair before, huh? You’re supposed to use scissors, not kitchen supplies, you know.” She motioned to the knife laying on the floor. 

She stepped closer and caught sight of the streaks of tears across his face. Eyebrows knitting together in worry, she leaned over and took some small scissors from the cabinet before sitting down in front of him. “Sam,” She carefully reached out and cupped her hand around his cheek, thumb brushing over the wound. “What’s wrong?” 

He didn’t answer. He moved his own hand to cover her’s on his cheek and asked instead, “Do you ever feel like there’s something _wrong_ with you? Something that made you different than you should have been, like there’s something inside of you that just- just, destroys?” 

She frowned and for a moment Sam wanted to take it all back. He shouldn’t have said that, he sounded dumb, he sounded insane, he sounded like a _freak_. 

But Jess just gave him a small smile and said, “Of course I do.” He blinked at her as she continued. “That difference, that’s not what’s ‘wrong’ with me. It’s who I am. It’s hard to accept, but you can’t just avoid yourself.” 

Sam blinked up at her with hollow eyes. She looked back with gentle ones. “You know, I used to be terrified of getting my hair cut, especially at a professional place, so my mom used to cut it.” Jess laughed softly. 

“She’d have me sit on this rickety old stool in the middle of our kitchen as she’d brush it and tell me stories, and eventually cut it off. I barely noticed.” She ran a hand through his hair, brushing some to the side. “When I got to be a teenager, she was the one to taught me how to cut my own. It was sort of freeing, being able to do it myself, and at the same time it was because of her and through her that I was doing it. Now, after she’s passed, I still get to carry a piece of her with me through that knowledge.” 

Sam thought of Mary and old photos and the mother he had never known. He thought of Dean and motel rooms and scissors next to his ear while his brother hummed Led Zeppelin. 

“You’ll get a hang of this soon enough.” Jess lifted the scissors, snipped here, snipped there. Locks of his hair fell into her lap and she didn’t brush them away. “Of course, I’ll always be here with you so you won’t ever need to cut it yourself if you don’t want to.” She offered him a grin, eyes twinkling. 

Her hands, the scissors, moved through his hair. Every cut was a caress. Somehow, crying and bleeding in a halo of hair on the bathroom floor, he felt more grounded than he ever had before. He felt like he was home. 

Against his will, new tears burned behind his eyes. “Jess-” he choked on them. 

She didn’t look at him, just smiled and pressed her forehead to his. It was warm. “I know, Sam. I know.” 

He closed his eyes and breathed. He wasn’t supposed to shut his eyes, to let his guard down, but he would disobey that order again and again for this moment. 

Eventually, after what seemed like an eternity and a lifetime all wrapped into one, she leaned back. He opened his eyes and watched as she dug through her jacket. She pulled out a small compact powder and flipped it open. 

She turned it towards him, revealing a mirror. “Here you are.” 

He reached towards it, hands trembling, and cradled it in his palms. This was an offering. 

He peered into the wobbly reflection and saw _himself _. A person who he was never really allowed to know. A person who he had the chance to know now.__

__He ran a hand through his hair in amazement. It was floppy, curled at the ends, bangs hanging above his eyes. Child-like, but different from the child he had been meant to be. He looked up at Jess, lowering the compact, mouth twitching into an unfamiliar grin._ _

__He looked into her eyes and saw the same reflection._ _

**Author's Note:**

> Later on, Sam probably feels really bad for messing up Jess’s birthday but she just throws a forkful of cake at his face and tells him to shut up


End file.
